


Galway Girl

by thewaterfalcon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 07:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10782609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaterfalcon/pseuds/thewaterfalcon
Summary: Prompt:~Ernie/Luna~The Hog's Head~a purple feather





	Galway Girl

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> ~Ernie/Luna  
> ~The Hog's Head  
> ~a purple feather

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was dark when he awoke, the only light visible was a thin streak that existed solely because of a meagre gap in the curtains of his four-poster.

 

This was the fifth night in a row it had happened, a few hours of, at best fitful and at worst broken, sleep and then, as though he’d been plunged into icy water, he would awaken, struggling for breath before, as soon as his breathing subsided back to normality, the confusion would set in.

 

 _Shouldn’t have taken it, Ernie, you prat,_ he had thought numerous times over the past week.

 

He was right, of course, he _shouldn’t_ have taken it, whatever the hell _it_ even was, not that that really mattered, but he knew this wasn’t healthy. The lack of sleep wasn’t healthy, and the fixation certainly wasn’t.

 

But he couldn’t seem to help it, he’d rather inwardly obsess over it than return to the reality in which it didn’t exist.

 

It was his flagship anecdote, his most treasured memory and his greatest desire all at once. But it wouldn’t be for nothing, that much he knew, even if the most that it existed was in a song that he’d write…

 

…about a Galway girl, and a perfect night.

 

* * *

 

 _Of how he got here, he had no clue. In fact, the more he thought of it, he hadn’t the faintest clue where_ here _was. He’d been at...school? Some sort of boarding school, possibly? But...how could he have been at a boarding school he couldn’t even remember?_

 

_The notion was entirely ludicrous._

 

_Not that it mattered, he supposed, the evening was pleasant enough, neither too cold nor warm, and it was dry, at least._

 

_A nearby street sign informed him that he had just turned onto Grafton Street, not that it gave Ernie much in the way of any clue of his whereabouts, considering he possessed neither knowledge nor memory of any Grafton Street, or anywhere, for that matter._

 

_He wondered, briefly, whether his amnesiac state should be a cause for concern. Probably, Ernie mused, but yet somehow, he wasn’t bothered in the slightest._

 

_Grafton Street, Ernie observed, played home to a number of bars, most of which, considering the dusky hue the evening currently possessed, looked as though they were just starting to get lively._

 

_As he walked further down the street, to nowhere in particular, he found himself peering into the open door of one pub in particular, where he could see a young man with hair so blond it was almost white under a single spotlight, was playing an acoustic guitar._

 

_“That’s my brother.” The voice was unfamiliar and rung out from right behind him, so close it had made Ernie jolt in surprise._

 

_“He’s good,” Ernie replied, his eyes lingering on the guitarist for a few seconds before he turned his head, his eyes momentarily widening as they met those of the owner of the mystery, yet distinctly Irish, voice._

 

_She was...something else, and although Ernie currently had no memories of any other females, he was fairly confident that she was unlike any other he had met before._

 

_An ethereal aura seemed to surround her, as though she was accompanied by a surrounding glow, or perhaps her presence simply dulled her surroundings. Either way, she possessed a vibrancy that Ernie found himself captivated with almost instantly._

 

_“He is,” she replied to his observation of her brother’s playing, “we both learned to read music from a very young age.”_

 

_“You play?”_

 

_“I play fiddle and cello, Draco plays piano and guitar.”_

 

_“Wow, that’s almost a band.”_

 

_She laughed at his words, a celestial, unworldly sound that made the corners of Ernie’s mouth twitch upwards. He couldn’t have held his smile back had he wished to, which he certainly did not. “We are in a band.”_

 

_“Then I was right.”_

 

_She laughed again. “What does that mean?” she asked, pointing to his bare left arm, “the Gaelic ink on your arm?”_

 

_“It’s one of my friend’s songs,” he hadn’t known what had possessed the words to erupt from his mouth, yet somehow they seemed to ring true, “Seamus, he’s a musician like you. Would you like a drink.”_

 

_Her pale, silvery eyes, so unusual and striking, lingered on him for a moment, before she nodded her head and lead the way inside. Ernie looked at the pub’s sign, before following her into The Hog’s Head._

 

_“A shot of Jameson please, Justin, and a Jack and coke. My friend here will have the same,” she spoke to the somewhat familiar man behind the bar, who shot them a wide smile and a curt nod before he set to work on pouring their drinks. She turned back to Ernie, “I’m Luna, by the way.”_

 

_“Ernie,” he replied, holding his hand out for her to shake. Instead, she placed a tumbler of whisky there instead._

 

_Their first drinks were finished in far too short a time, and for their second round, she asked for ‘two shots of Bell’s, and two blue labels with lemonade’, whatever they were._

 

_Whisky. It turned out they were whisky._

 

_They chatted some more until she demanded they put some, in her words, ‘Van the man’ on the jukebox. ‘Van the man’ turned out to be one Van Morrison, an artist who Ernie, despite having no memory of ever listening to any song, let alone enough to know all the words to one, nonetheless found himself fluently blaring out ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ to Luna in the middle of the crowded, strange pub._

 

_She beat him at darts, and then beat him even worse at pool, and then she kissed him like there was nobody else in the room and as Justin called last orders, she was standing on a bar stool singing out an acapella version of a song she called ‘Carrickfergus’._

 

_“I swear, I could have your voice on repeat for a week,” Ernie said into her ear, “I know this place is crowded but I could have sworn you were singing that only for me.”_

 

_She winked in response. “Maybe I was!”_

 

_Ernie kissed her on the lips, and then the cheek and the neck, relishing the way she giggled at his touch. “Baby,” she began, her hips swaying against his, “I just want to dance!”_

 

_“I think,” Ernie said, laughing at the way her body continued to move despite the now absence of song, “we’ve outstayed our welcome.”_

 

_Indeed, Justin was placing chairs atop their respective tables and clearly making tracks to close the bar, and so they left the venue hand in hand, her coat smelling of smoke, whisky and wine, and a purple feather now present in her silvery locks._

 

_“Oh, it’s freezing!” she exclaimed, do you want to come to mine? I have Doritos and wine…” she added, her tone purposefully enticing._

 

_“I swear I’m going to put you in a song that I write.”_

 

_“You write songs?”_

 

_“I do now! It’ll be called ‘Galway Girl’, and be about my perfect night”_

 

_“Oh no!” She exclaimed._

 

_“Everything okay?”_

 

_“I think I just fell in love with an English man!”_

 

_He kissed her on the neck again in response, and she whispered into his ear, “Baby, I just want to dance!”_

 

* * *

 

 

He shouldn’t have taken it, but he also shouldn't be blaming her, either. She’d been perfectly clear.

 

“It’s absolutely harmless,” Luna had said as she held up the small packet, “my father just sent me some.”  


“And it’s _what_ , exactly?” Justin had ventured, eyeing the packet suspiciously.

 

Luna had blinked at his question, a dreamlike expression present upon her pale face, “It’s a sort of hallucinogenic cactus, supposed to be quite the experience, anyone care to have a bite?”

 

Ernie scowled. Nobody had forced him to take a bite of the cactus plant.

 

He sighed, mentally weighing up the situation for what felt like the hundredth time. Could he really be placing blame? She, and it, _had_ given him _her,_ the _other_ her. His pretty little Galway girl...

  
...and their perfect night.


End file.
